The Street

I tell you it's all go in my suburban street of South West London. The nets are twitching.
The people next door have started having the most monumental rows, throwing things accompanied by much shrieking. I don't suppose he is actually killing his very beautiful Spanish wife and three children but it sounds as though she's putting up a good fight. He is pretty vile - a mad Syrian builder with WHT. I had to give him a lecture about not touching my bum in response to which he called me a racist bitch so I haven't spoken to him for two years. He parks his horrid white van outside our house and rants on about everyone in the street being paki bashers - wrong, they just hate you and your numerous badly parked vehicles.

Mrs Nosey, who lives opposite, is desperate to get the low down on the state of the neighbours' marriage. I shan't tell her. It's none of her business; she needs to get on line and read my blog if she wants to know such confidential information. Her husband is the street's best farter; Mr Smith says if you walk behind him to the paper shop it's positively melodic. Well, I bet the poor man isn't allowed to let off so much as a whisper at home so trumpetting round the block is probably fair enough. Miss Ross at no.6 and her dog both seem to have Alzheimers. She asks me the oddest questions such as whether my son went to school with her brother who died in the war. Her dog runs off on the Common then forgets to whom it belongs and they spend entire afternoons looking for each other. If Scilla at no 9 gets any bigger she will explode. The doctor at no. 11 tells me that the woman at no. 15 is a drunk. I must say her husband is a bit flimsy and it was he who got plastered at our party rather than she. Maybe they take it in turns. I gather the couple at no 16 are absolutely delightful, particularly her - Oh that's where I live.

Cue brassy music and role credits. Ena Sharples was played by Mrs Smith. Mr Smith is Ken Barlow.